


Stutter-shook and uptight

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Animal Death, Arson, Child Death, Childhood Trauma, Delusions, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Instability, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Jack Rollins and Brock Rumlow are on different missions. Then they overlap.
Relationships: Jack Rollins & Brock Rumlow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Stutter-shook and uptight

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please heed the warnings. The murders are graphic and if the child death is something you are especially sensitive to please do not read this. 
> 
> And if that's something that doesn't bother you too much, please enjoy.
> 
> title: Colorblind by Counting Crows
> 
> beta'd by FantasticWinter

The sky stretched above them, a black canvas speckled with silver. Beneath it red flames stretched towards it, burning hot enough to make the space around it shimmer. Glass shattered and a new flame joined in, reaching for the heavens, grasping for the moon. Brock thought, should be it possible, it wanted to burn that too. Back on the ground the structure was engulfed. Behind him he could hear the far off sirens. Blue and white flames danced around each other, dancing, writhing, snaking. It was beautiful and so very ugly at the same time. Brock breathed in the smoke and crisp Wyoming air. Even with his eyes shut the flames burned. He could see them, could feel them almost, like he was absorbing its energy. He was, wasn’t he? 

He became One with the Flame. The Flame was him and he was the Flame. Two halves of a whole. Ying and Yang. The Flame needed subsistence and was why the Flame needed him. 

Tonight the Flame had consumed a family of five. It was satisfied for now and Brock had watched It in all Its glory. Now he had to walk away and that was fine. The Flames warmed his back, a job well done. In his arms he held a cat: the Flame didn’t need the pets so Brock was tasked with retrieving them first. He deposited the cat off the property -- if it decided to return to the crackling call of the Flame that was okay. Maybe the Flame would choose it as It chose Brock. No, a cat couldn’t do the work of the Flame. That was stupid, and he couldn’t be stupid. No, not stupid. Never Stupid. 

Not Stupid Not Stupid NOT STUPID

Brock had been picked because he was strong, because he was smart and the Flame knew. It picked him because he had survived It. And Brock had survived for the soul purpose of carrying the Flame on. And he did. He did the Flame’s bidding because he was smart and capable. Not stupid, smart. Not evil, obedient. Not ugly, blessed.

** ** ** **

Mrs. Trapp smiled as Jackson made a very obvious grab towards a cookie. She scolded him lightly, a theatrical wag of her fingers, mouth moving mutely. The boy, eight or nine, retreats obediently. He disappears from view for a moment before reappearing in the living room where Mr. Trapp is indulging Lily, six or seven, with knock-off Barbie dolls. He drove an Acura RLS they cannot afford but he kept to keep up with appearances while stressing at night with Mrs. Trapp about the racked up debt and LAST NOTICE letters. 

The view was obstructed by a passing Honda and Jack scowled, lowering his binoculars. His cell phone chimed. His lunch hour was over. He had a call in Cul-De-Sac on the other side of the boroughs. He had spent every lunch in the spot for the past three weeks and was finally ready. He knew the Trapps movements, understood their habits and their schedules as well as those in the houses around him. But first he had to work. It wasn’t anything difficult, a standard Sag and Swell. He hardly heard the short mousey woman talking to him. He refused coffee and saw a rip in her pantyhos. It angered him -- Mrs. Trapp never had a hair out of place, even in the morning when she shuffled out for the newspaper, she was put together. Mousey continued to chatter about speculations she’d seen online about the problem, as though she thought she knew better than him. 

(You listen to me, Jack. You hear me? You listen to me or else I’ll... )

Jack tuned her out. Silence was good, it was safe. He thought about the Trapps. Snacks at seven thirty and then the children to bed, their bedrooms side by side connected by a jack and jill bathroom. Mr. and Mrs. Trapp going to their bedroom. They only fucked on Saturdays. Someone touched Jack. He snapped out his haze to see her leaning over with lipstick smeared and a frown. “I asked you how much you think it’ll cost.” 

She smiled and there was lipstick on her teeth too. God did Jack hate lipstick. 

(He looks so pretty now, doesn’t he? What do you think Matilda? So pretty…)

“I’ll bill you up after I’ve located and fixed the problem.” 

“Oh.” She sat back and Jack hated her. Hated her chipmunk cheeks and rosacea and her crooked smile. Hated her sagging breasts and the tiny stain on her frumpy sweater. “Well, okay.” 

‘Well okay’. He looked down at the cord. He got up and she startled, stepping back. The cord went up around her neck and he squeezed, cock hardening as she fought, clawing at her throat, strength slowly sapping away he tightened the cord, holding on tight, his front flushed with her 

“Can I at least get you some juice or something? I feel like a horrible host.” 

Jack opened his eyes. The cord was still in his hand. Sometimes his fantasies felt too real. 

“I don’t need anything.” 

“Well okay.” Jack hated when she said that. Why would she keep saying it? “I suppose I’ll give you some space.” 

When she was gone he exhaled. Tonight the Trapps. No need to lapse now. Just keep working. And then then the Trapps. Snack at seven thirty, children to bed, jack and jill bathroom, Mr. and Mrs. Trapp to bed, only fuck on Saturdays. It was a mantra he used to focus himself as he corrected the issue. He wrote up the bill and ignored Mousey’s thank you and goodbyes. He got in this truck, took a deep breath, and tried to purge her from thought. 

(So forgetful, aren’t you Jack? Let’s what we can do to help you remember…)

Tonight, the Trapps. 

His handheld EMP took care of the security system, locks and the ability of Mr. and Mrs. calling for help. He closed the door behind him -- no reason to be a shoddy house guest -- and crept past school year photographs. Jack paused to look at them. Jackson had three, Lily didn’t have any, she must have just started school. Jack continued on. The only pet the family owned was a hamster that must have been kept in one of their rooms because he didn’t see it downstairs. Jack always took the time to explore, to really get a feel for the Trapps. He felt like he knew them -- because he did. People dropped their acts at home, a place where they were safe. Jack would thank them for that, for showing him their lives. It meant a lot to Jack. It made the anger go away. 

He finished his meander around and grabbed his duffel bag. He opened the first door -- Lily. The room was a warm pink color, a night light globe had stars shining across the room. She slept with a stuffed white rabbit, eyes closed and a smile on her lips that assured Jack she was having only the sweetest of dreams. Jack was glad.

When he left the room the white rabbit was strained red and on the floor, just shy of her outstretched hand. 

The boy was a light sleeper, sitting up as the door creaked open. “Dad?”

“No, Jackson.”

Jack closed the door and approached him. The boy looked confused and tired. “Do I know you?” 

“No. But I know you.” 

He had to put his hand over his mouth as he shoved the knife between the third and fourth rib. He held Jackson until he was sure he was gone. Jack looked down at him, at wide glassy green eyes still wet with tears. 

“It’s better than foster care,” he assured him. 

(So goddamn ungrateful, the lot of you. Everything that I do…)

The hamster was running on a wheel, unknowing or uncaring. Jack made quick work of it. Pets weren’t allowed. They were dirty and smelly, she always said. So, even though it pained him to do it, he dealt with it. 

The children were always the heavy lifting but now he was free to carry on. They slept with their backs toward each other, a failing marriage, Jack suspected. It wouldn’t matter though, not much longer. Mr. Trapp was the biggest threat so grabbed the rope out of his bag and used it as a makeshift gorette. Mrs. Trapp was sound asleep, the quiet scuffle didn’t bother her in the least and when he went limp Jack held on for another few minutes. He died peacefully, slumping like he was asleep. Jack set him down carefully and then walked around to where Mrs. Trapp slept peacefully, unaware that her family was dead. Good. Bitches should be unaware. Awful, evil, horrible Bitches, the lot of them. She acted kind, treated her children well but inside her laid the potential to be Her. 

(You hate me, don’t you. I can see it in your eyes, I can see that you wish I was dead…)

Jack did wish she was dead. He wished he could destroy her, turn her into nothing. Rotten bitch. Evii, horrible, ugly… 

Mrs. Trapps’ scream came out garbled, blood, throat torn open in one wild slash. “You horrible fucking Bitch,” Jack snarled. “You’re the bad one. You sorry, pathetic Bitch.” 

He was stabbing Mrs. Trapp, ripping ragged holes into her body. She choked on blood, eyes rolling wildly, body limp with pain. “You Bitch,” he snapped with each stab. “You Bitch.” 

His anger burned brightly, white hot fury finally channeled down from flesh to knife. When she no longer twitched or gasped, Jack stopped stabbing. Serenity flowed through him, the harsh smoker’s voice muted. He wiped the Bitch’s blood off his knife and stowed it back into his bag. The Trapps house was quiet and it felt empty. He let himself out and dropped his bloody gloves on the patio. He crossed the lawn and squeezed between the ledges. He got into his car and flipped down the visor. He wiped a few droplets of blood off his cheek and sucked it off his thumb before he started his car and headed home. Once there he took a shower. 

He closed eyes, reliving the death of the Bitch, thrusting into his fist in time with the stabs. He finished with a groan. He sagged under the water spray. One less Bitch in the world -- he could sleep easy again. 

** ** ** **

The Flame was only sated for so long and Brock knew that. He liked working outside of city limits. He saw lots of potential feasts for the Flame: big old houses made of aged wood that would burn big and beautiful as the Flame consumed it. Sometimes, when he was hitching up a truck that failed to start, he thought about feeding the Flame in the day of light, to let the Flame see the burning beauty of the sun. But Flame was nocturnal. The radio chattered on with the news while he parked waiting for his next call. The news droned on, bulgars, the recession, stocks, some murder, and finally, the lotto numbers. Brock didn’t win. He never did. 

It was stupid of him to try; what did have to win anyway? 

not stupid not stupid not stupid

His money was shared. The Flame consumed half of it, bills burnt over the kitchen sink in tribute. It was the least he could until he could give the Flame a proper meal. The last one had been weeks ago, four to be exact, and the Flame was getting hungry. It came to him in his dream. He showed Brock what He wanted, what He needed, what Brock needed to give to Him. And Brock was His humble servant -- he’d give the Flame whatever It asked for. So while he waited for a call, he looked at the houses. The Flame would pick, It always did. Brock was a vessel for Him, a God operating within a human form. Brock was blessed by that. 

The Flame didn’t speak, not in the way humans did. Humans were puny and insignificant and the Flame was… The Flame was everything. It communicated in the way It knew how. It was inside Brock’s head, gracing him with his omnipotent presence. And when Brock’s eyes rested on a three story house with flaking yellow paint and Victorian style towers, the Flame roared and It showed him the image of the yellow house light up in flames. The souls inside consumed by It. And those souls were lucky to be offered. 

Brock began to scope out the house on his first day off. He used the tow truck. It wouldn’t draw suspicion because it was a service vehicle. It was smart because Brock was smart, not stupid. Why had he ever thought something like that? No, with the Flame’s guidance Brock had become smarter than any human in the world. He was One with the Flame. He was superior to all. He learned it was a family of six. A mother and a father, two children and a snow haired woman that have been the children’s grandmother. Brock didn’t remember his mother though he remembered her skirts smelled of linen. The Flame roared. Brock wasn’t supposed to be thinking about his mother, he was supposed to be watching and learning. Victorian era homes rarely had downstairs bedrooms which was ideal in getting the gasoline spread evenly. 

On Thursday, when the streets were dead and everyone at school or work, Brock pulled on his gloves and let himself in. He started at the top, drilling screws into the windows so they couldn’t be opened. He was slow and methodical, each done properly because it had to be. All the souls in this house were now owed to the Flame and Brock didn’t want to fail Him. He returned his truck to wait. 

They came home, went inside and as the Flame had advised Brock, opened the window above the stove to let fresh air in. The Flame had instructed him to leave the ground floor windows open, so it didn’t attract suspicion during the evening. The temperature dropped and with the window. Brock could see the husband toying with the thermostat. The heat is one, the windows are closed. Night fell, eight o’clock crept to nine, then ten. Finally, at the witching hour, Brock got out and pulled the three jugs of gas from the back of the truck. The entire neighborhood was silent, fast asleep, warm and safe. And soon the family would be blessed with the Flame’s Warmth. They were lucky, they had been Chosen. 

He wedged the back door open and began to pour to the gasoline. He pooled on the counter, on top of the gas stove, on the furniture, and all over the stairs as he retreated back. The Flames weren’t meant for him. He wasn’t part of the Offering. He still had the Flames work to do. He stood at the patios door looking at the space that was so empty and cold. He pulled a match from the box and the rough growl of a strike followed by the sweet sizzle of the potassium chlorate and sulfur. He held the Flame a moment, stared at it dancing in excitement to grow. It was Born. It was here. Finally Brock was seeing the Flame Incarnate. He had a vase with a betta fish in it tucked under his arm as he walked away, setting it a safe distance away. He watched little hands beat against the second floor window so he turned his attention to the fish. Brock looked at it and thought that maybe he wanted one. 

But Water was the enemy of Flame and no, that wouldn’t do. It had been a stupid thought. 

not stupid not stupid not stupid. 

Now the Flame was out of his head, growing, swelling, living, alive. 

But now it was feeding, Brock’s head was empty and all he could do was stare in awe at its power. 

** ** ** **

It was a two story home, nestled behind privacy hedges. Jack could see movement between the bushes and he rolled down the window to hear “ --Jacy, out of the leaves please, you father -- ”

She had a nice voice for Bitch, husky and not too high. This was the house and was the Bitch. One of many. Too many Bitches in this world, he thought in disgust. Rotten, evil Bitches. It had been a week and a half, time ticking as he got to know the Morrisons. Two little girls -- girls that would grow to be Bitches so he was saving them really -- Mrs. Morrison and Mr. Morrison who seemed to be an attorney. 

(Lawyers are seedy pricks, Jack. They try to accuse you of all lots of things…)

He was still learning their schedule but it seemed that Mrs. Morrison went for groceries on Wednesday because she brought Jacy to dance class on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the other, Milly (Jack suspected it was short of something) had Brownies on Mondays and Fridays. A busy little family. Mr. Morrison followed a pattern as well. Arriving at quarter to five with small variations from traffic. The house was packed up by sixty thirty each night, crowded around the dinner table and then the living room before they got ready for bed. Jack’s finger trailed his scar as he looked through the windows. At Mrs. Morrison leaning over. He was certain her shirt had fallen, exposing cleavage. Horrible, disgusting Bitch. No, she was a Bitch-Whore. 

The worst kind, Jack thought with a bitter taste in his mouth. It was a taste that he couldn’t be rid of until the Bitch-Whore was dead. 

Mr. and Mrs. Morrison had sex on Mondays and Thursdays. The Bitch-Whore always rode him, Jack could see her silhouette through cream curtains. She probably knew anyone could see and that was why she insisted on it. But not much longer, Jack thought in disdain, glaring at the woman helping her daughter with her school work. Soon the Bitch-Whore would be gone and the anger that boiled beneath his skin like shards of glass would finally be satisfied. 

** ** ** **

The house was smaller than usual but the Flame made itself known in his dreams. He had towed a Chevy with a shot engine past it. Brock had glanced at the house with blue vinyl siding and kept going. The Flame had given no indication that It wanted the house but that night It showed it’s Divine need. Brock was It’s humble servant -- he would give It that house. He would do as It demanded, they were One, together…together… 

He parked behind an SUV and watched the house. He waited for the car to move so he could pull up and get a better look at it but the car hung around. Brock told the Flame he’d come back another time. The whole ride the Flame nagged him, demanded he go back so he did as It commanded and parked on the opposite side, too close for comfort but the Flame told him it was temporary. No one would notice a Volvo in a spot just once. It was a family of four, small for the Flame but it was early. It was a meal, not a feast but if it was what the Flame wanted, so be it. Two little girls, a golden haired woman with a lovely smile and a handsome father. A fitting meal for a Supreme Being. 

But it was soon. So very soon. The SUV pulled away -- Brock had been so caught up in watching the woman push the girl on the swing he didn’t see the driver get in. He could remember a feeling that once, when he was child, before the Flame Chose him. The weightless feeling in his gut as he swung up higher and higher. There was no fear, the person pushing him would catch him. Brock was smiling when the Flame snapped at him to pay attention. He quickly pulled into the open spot. 

** ** ** **

Jack was watching the house, as Mrs. Morrison, that Bitch-Whore, finally pulled out. He gripped the steering wheel, settingly in to wait for her to come home. But then saw motion behind the hedges. He grabbed his binoculars and watched a man casually strolling around the house. A bulgarer? No, bulgarers didn’t strike in broad daylight. So who was this man? Jack was angry. If caught the family would put up defences and make his job far more complicated than it needed to be. He just needed the Bitch-Whore dead. He needed it, why did this person have to try and take it away? 

The man finished his perimeter sweep and got into a Volvo. 

Jack followed. Whatever this man was, he was novice because he followed him with ease into a low income borough and parked a few carlenghts away. He climbed a stoop and vanished inside a lime green door. Jack waited for night to fall. His heart was racing -- he’d never killed without planning and never a man. There was something exciting about it. His cock half hard, bouncing from anticipation to fear. He ensured his rope was there before he got out of the backseat, sliding from the car. He had a lockpick kit and the knob was easy to open. The door opened with a small squeal and Jack quickly shifted inside, shutting it. He was taken back by the inside. Every surface was covered in candles, wax coating everything. They lit up the kitchen living room space and he could see them around the stove. The clock there read 1:13AM and Jack shrugged off the strange decoration choices. He didn’t like to be caught off guard, it was why he scoped out his targets so closely. He was coming in blind and that scared him. 

It wasn’t often that he was frightened. It wasn’t often he felt much of anything but anger. It was something to be cherished so he waited a moment, let the fear bat around his gut, and then he ascended the steps. They were sturdy and didn’t squeal under his feet. He counted them as he walked, grounding himself, steeling his nerves. There were three doors and he started with the nearest one. It was a table with rows and rows of candles and a framed replica of The Great Fire of London 1666. Jack cocked his head at it a moment, taking in a strange shrine. 

Then he was struck from behind and crumpled forward heavily. He was unconscious but he wasn’t quite conscious either. Dazed he watched the man pace back and forth. 

“--gonna kill me,” he whimpered. Then his voice got husky as he said, “Kill him, he threatens Me.” He went back to its regular tenor. “I’ve n-never done that before and I-I…” Voice husky again: “You dare disobey Me?” Normal voice: “N-no You Command me, but…” Husky voice: “You will Obey Me and kill him.” The man deflated. “As You Command.” 

Jack shifted upwards, duct taped by his own tape which was salt in a wound. 

The man turned and it illuminated his face. One side was normal and the other was knots of shy scar tissue left from a burn. And Jack knew that face. “Brock? Brock...Rumlow.” 

It had been decades since he last said that name, since he last saw Brock. He looked startled and his eyes darted around nervously before he knelt beside him and whispered, “The Flame wants you.” 

“That what?” Jack’s head ached. “Get me out of this shit, Rumlow.” 

Brock dropped back to his knees looking down sadly. “I… I can’t Jack. The Flame knows you wanted to kill Him -- kill us.” 

“I didn’t know it was you,” Jack said truthfully. “Who’s the Flame?” 

“The Flame is everything,” Brock mustered a smile, fingers trailing over his face. “He chose me when I was a kid.” 

Jack realized it was nonsense and he got a bit nervous. “Okay… Tell him we’re friends.” 

“We are?” 

“We both survived that Bitch. That’s more than friends. We’re brothers.” 

Brock looked even more confused. “Auntie -- ”

“Don’t say that Bitch’s name,” Jack snarled and Brock recoiled. Jack took a deep breath. “Get me out of this tape.” 

Brock got his feet and started to pace again. “He won’t hurt us,” Brock said before saying, “He lies. He’s a danger to Us.” “No, he’s my friend he wouldn’t hurt me or-or You.” “I spared you, you owe Me your life.” Sniffling, “I don’t want to kill him.” Husky, “If you don’t you are failing Me.” 

Brock pulled out the knife and looked at Jack with wet eyes. “I’m sorry Jack.” 

With careful slow pressure he drove the knife down. Brock knelt there, watching, ensuring the job was done. A drop of blood filled the scar below his lip. A tear fell down his cheeks. Jack had helped him when they were with Auntie Gertrude, a sadistic woman with a home full of children to torture. Jack had been there with Brock when she screamed at how stupid he was. He drew the voice away; he had protected him. He didn’t want to hurt him, he really didn’t. But he didn’t have a choice. The Flame had Commanded it and what He Commanded must be. Brock was naught but His humble servant. 

“Kill the Bitch-Whore for me,” Jack demanded, vicious even with his failing strength. “The whole lot of Evil Bitches, Brock. Every single one of them.”

Jack’s body sagged, losing strength. 

Brock wiped the tears from the back of his hand and nodded. He’d feed her to the Flame. Some good would come from this. 

“I will. And-and…” Brock said. “I’m sorry.” 

When Jack was still he went to lock the front door. He gathered cleaning supplies from under the sink, following the Flame’s guidance on how to take care of the body. He took the steps two at a time and when he entered the Chapel he stood dead. 

Jack was gone.


End file.
